


A Dish Best Served On Paper

by TheLilacPilgrim



Category: Colbert Report FPF, Fake News RPF
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLilacPilgrim/pseuds/TheLilacPilgrim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen's book, Horror Show: My Years With Jon Stewart is a roaring success... but not exactly true according to its subject. As a result, Jon considers it necessary to confront his colleague.</p>
<p>Written for the Contests Contest at <a href="http://moments-of-zen.deviantart.com/">moments-of-zen</a> over on DeviantArt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served On Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own, work with or know Stephen or Jon and am not affiliated with the Colbert Report or the Daily Show. Any resemblance to real life events is purely coincidental. No malice is intended.

"Uh, Stephen? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Stephen had seen the veritable mane of silver before he'd seen the rest of Stewart's giant head, and with a bitter sigh he cracked both heels onto his computer desk, very nearly toppling the new and very expensive monitor as he reclined in his comfortable leather desk chair.

"What do you want, Jon?" he asked, his tone cold, his gaze, he was certain, piercing. Jon seemed nervous, and with the release of the younger man's sensational new book he had every reason to be. The power it gave Stephen was intense and seeing his old employer looking so very small - smaller than usual, that is - was just the icing on a moist, delicious cake of sweet, sweet justice. The silver fox cleared his throat before continuing.

"Well, Stephen, I've had the chance to look at your new... book," he started, blue eyes burning into the former correspondent's very soul. "So far I am not impressed. Well, actually; that's a lie. I'm really, really astounded at the imagination you've got in that head of yours."

"Oh, you would say that, Jon." Reaching over for a copy of his latest accomplishment, he opened it to a random page and started reading. "After all, you were the man who said to me that I was 'complaining too much over a scratch' as you roughly handled the fresh, deep incision you'd made in my thigh using nothing but a bobby pin you kept hidden in your shoe."

The door slammed shut and Stephen jumped rather convincingly.

"I did _not do that!_ " Jon insisted, stepping forward awfully threateningly for a man with such short legs. "You _know_ that didn't happen! Look, it's all fine and good when we're on TV and making fun and poking at each other but this?"

Drumming his fingers against the lovely shiny book sleeve, the bespectacled man grinned with pure satisfaction. "Oh, but what was it you said? 'No-one will believe you'? I'm sure that's still true."

Stewart groaned and cupped his head in his hands exasperatedly. "I don't think you realise how serious this is. In one chapter you say I burned your hand on a coffee jug and proceeded to make you drink the contents while I..." He opened his own copy, which was bookmarked in several places. "...while I 'watched lustfully, a lurid smile on my severely wrinkled face and a hand down my thrift-store jeans'. I mean, what the hell, Stephen?! _People believe this crap!_ I'm getting hate mail from idiots who obviously don't understand satire... or deep-seated emotional problems... when they see it!"

"I'm sorry, Jon, but it's about time people knew the truth!" Dragging his legs off the desk, papers crumpled and dropped as Stephen leaned over to glare into those sweet baby blues. "You can't expect to perch behind that bizarrely shaped desk of yours, a vulture dressed like an eagle, without someone wanting to expose you for what you really are!"

"But Stephen, I" He trailed off, staring at a well-hidden lens jutting out about five inches from the wall above Stephen's head. Frowning, he pointed at it as though that would make it magically disappear. "Stephen, is that a spy camera?"

"Yes, Jon, it is. How astute of you!" Grinning widely, he turned and gave it a wave before turning back to his "friend" with an ugly scowl. Well, as ugly as it was even possible for him to get. Which, you know, wasn't much. "Going out live to Colbert Nation! So you'd better watch what you do in here, little one, because when you sexually harass and physically abuse me, you sexually harass and physically abuse America, and when you do that, Colbert Nation gets _mad_!"

For a long moment, Jon was speechless, staring at him with so much guilt in that tiny frame, like a man who honestly thought his friend and colleague had gone hopelessly insane.

"Uh-huh, yeah, and what are they going to do? E-mail me to death?" The look of disgusting concern in his ancient features reminded Stephen too much of that one time when he walked in on him talking to Sweetness about who to go to when your car needed a coffee machine installed.

"They're a smart bunch, you know. At least one of them probably knows how to make a computer virus that orders your PC to strangle you in your sleep."

"Uh I don't think _anyone_ can do that." Stephen scoffed at his ignorance.

"Oh-ho-ho, just you wait, Stewart!" he exclaimed, wagging a finger at his bemused visitor. "You'll find out all about what my comrades can do!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon shook his salt-and-pepper head. "Okay, whatever; I don't really give a crap about Colbert Nation right now. What I do care about is that you are spreading vicious, damaging lies about me!"

"Oh, come on, Jon," he jeered, frowning. "They are not at all vicious."

"Stephen, in chapter seven, which you titled 'Kinky Fruits', you claim that I made you peel a pineapple with your bare hands and then forced you to chew it up for me and transfer it into my mouth. You even say the banana thing was _my_ idea! I never had to _make_ you do that."

Through gritted teeth, Stephen growled; "When will you just admit that you're a violent, fruit-obsessed, repressed-homosexual, unfunny employer?" Jon dropped the tome to the floor, causing the bookmarks to scatter.

"About the same time that you admit that you're a fruit whore!"

The younger man slammed a fist into his desk.

"You take that back!" he yelled, impressive crocodile tears making his eyes shimmer and sparkle in the light.

"No can do, my friend." The silver-haired runt advanced slowly towards the computer desk. "Since you won't admit that you're a lying banana-muncher, I'm about to make chapters nine through thirteen come true!"

And just like that, he launched at Stephen, swiping up a pair of scissors from the desk. Stapler in hand, the former correspondent was more than ready for a fight. Narrowly avoiding Jon's attack, he pressed the stapler ineffectively against his old employer's back a couple of times. Damn! Out of staples! Before he could even think about refilling, Stewart turned and grabbed his red tie, a sadistic grin on his face as he pinned his friend down.

"N-no! Please, Jon!" he begged, wriggling under the weak, tiny frame pushed against him. "D-don't! You _wouldn't!_ "

"According to chapter ten, I would!"  Menacingly, he snipped the air with his weapon. "'The gleaming silver blades descended, reflected in his sapphire eyes of doom...'"

The gleaming silver blades descended slowly, reflected in Jon's sapphire eyes of doom. Stephen yelped and pleaded, but to no avail. With one swift snip and a strangled cry of agony from the helpless victim, Stephen's beautiful silk tie was completely ruined. Which, for the gloating human bobble-head, was one very big mistake.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

With that war-cry, Stephen screeched an eagle-like screech and shoved Jon harshly, causing him to crash into a filing cabinet. The scissors fell from his grip and slid underneath, leaving him weaponless against the stapler-wielding maniac - er, American hero. He had barely any time to find something else to use when the crazed TV show host pounced, stapling the silver fox's shoulder hard.

"My! Wife! Gave! Me! That! Tie!" he screamed, ignoring Jon's cries of discomfort as the ends of the tiny metal bands scraped his skin through his thick suit jacket. Luckily enough, it had been cold out that day. "She! Is! Going! To! Kill! Me!"

Grabbing the first object within his reach, Jon smacked his attacker in the face before even looking at it. Yelling in surprise more than pain, Stephen dropped the stapler, allowing his former employer the chance to scrabble back to his feet and examine the taxidermied eagle he'd just used to disarm his friend. Well, it was certainly winning points for 'weirdest fight he'd ever had'. While he thought about the surreal nature of their battle, the bespectacled man scooped up a bunch of old AOL discs from the dusty bottom drawer and started throwing them across the room. Unfortunately, not a single one hit his target, instead veering off to the right and eliciting a frustrated cry of _'damnit!'_ as they cracked against the brick wall.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jon piped up in mock-surprise, looking at the wrecked, mirror-y pile. "Were you  were you trying to hit me?"

Immediately, he regretted his taunt as a heavy Bible made perfect contact with his chest and winded him.

"Clearly, God is on _my side_ , Jon! Or should I say, _on your chest_?" came the not-too-witty response, and the older man groaned.

"Finally, a joke that matches your show for quality," he wheezed, charging at Stephen with the eagle and sort of hoping that the talons didn't fall off before they made contact with the other's face. It was bad enough that he was using it as a weapon but for it to fall apart while he did so was morbid, and he was pretty sure it crossed the lines of acceptable viewing. Stephen attempted to duck, but gave a high-pitched yelp as the talons scraped down his left ear and cheek. Seeing that they'd left bright red marks, Jon stood back to admire his handiwork, apparently not realising that the fight was far from over. He was soon made wise to the fact as Stephen ripped his beloved American flag from the wall and rushed the still-gasping man with a loud, echoing yell.

Enveloped in the large fabric flag, the pair tumbled across the office floor, pushing and shoving, pulling hair and biting limbs (sometimes their own in true comic fashion), shouting and blaming and accusing and discussing the weather and becoming tightly tangled together. They only came to a stop when the fabric couldn't stretch any more, though they wobbled and thrashed in a desperate attempt to separate.

"Stephen!" Jon croaked finally, completely worn out. He was just too old, too weak and too little for these kinds of confrontations. "Stephen, this is insane! Why are we doing this? Why are we fighting? Why did you write that stupid book? _Why do you have a spy camera in your own office?_ "

Taking frantic breaths, Stephen managed to splutter; "Revenge, Jon; revenge! Or, as you might remember it, zrevenge! It is a dish best served zcold, Jon! Or in your case, inside a heavy, mostly-made-up first edition hardback."

"Zrevenge? What?"  Jon's struggling only served to lessen his ability to breathe.

"Remember it, Jon? You _laughed_ , Jon, you had your fun! But in the end, _who was teaching our kids to recognise letters_?"

Suddenly, it clicked. The tiny, cocooned TV show host tugged unsuccessfully at the flag.

"Stephen, are you telling me that you wrote all those horrible, horrible things about me because I showed a clip of you in _Sesame Street_?!"

"Yes, Jon! Taste it! Taste the sweet, crumbly deliciousness of my zvictory!" Though Stephen couldn't see it, Jon rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake  Fine, Stephen, you win, I can taste my bittersweet defeat "

"Zdefeat!"

"Zdefeat. I taste it, it's terrible, now untangle us and fix what you started."

Wriggling back on top of Jon, Stephen was able to pull free from the now slightly-torn flag. He'd fix it later. The silver fox sprang to his feet and brushed himself down, looking hurt in more ways than one. Oh no. _Oh no_. There were those weird feelings again. What were they called? They made him feel all fluttery inside. And wibbly sometimes. On occasion, a little floaty. Whatever people called them, they were accompanied by crushing guilt, and that made things suddenly feel really, really terrible.

"Uh, hey, Jon?" he said as his "friend" stomped towards the door. "I, uh For what it's worth the camera doesn't even work... and I know you didn't do any of that stuff. You were actually a pretty okay employer. Most of the time. When you weren't stoned."

To his great surprise and immense relief, Jon turned back to face him with a tiny smile. 

"I know, Stephen." Though there was silence for a while, the look in his mentor's eyes spoke volumes. They were going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine. He couldn't help but smile back. "And hey, the book is pretty good if you look at it as parody. And, uh sorry about the"

Gesturing towards his own face, he grimaced and disappeared out the door, leaving Stephen alone in his office once again.

Victorious at last, he returned to his desk, straightened his collar and tentatively pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his throbbing nose. Calling up the file containing the final chapter of his book, he added one little amendment that was sure to save Jon's reputation, or at least what was left of it.

_"...#NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement"_


End file.
